


The Omega Steward

by K_Popsicle



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Fade to Black, Getting Together, Loyalty, M/M, Marriage, Mpreg, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Popsicle/pseuds/K_Popsicle
Summary: Aragorn returns from the Battle of Morannon to rest and recover. The Steward of Gondor shows him to his room.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Yellow Team





	The Omega Steward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Aragorn has fought a bloody war alongside the armies of men before the Black Gate of Mordor and he is tired but he still finds himself before Faramir the Steward of Gondor upon his return to Minas Tirith. The people speak, there are trumpets, crying, the dead have not yet been returned, and Aragorn stares at the man he has only briefly met as if staring through a thick fog. There is a scent in the air that washes away even the scent of battle that lingers in the high air.

Faramir is not bloody. Faramir is not bent. But he is tired, and Aragorn, who has washed on the banks of Anduin on the journey back feels in his bones the stark contrast between them.

They have paraded up the winding streets of Minas Tirith but once dismounted before the citadel all ceremony disappears.

“My friends you have journeyed far, and worn your bones bare. You must rest, the rest will wait,” Faramir states, and he is not the King but he is the Steward and the people move to his command. The few with the energy left to keep going after the siege do what they can to assist. “My Lord, I will lead you and your companions to the Steward’s Chambers where we have prepared baths and simple beddings.” Faramir supports his elbow and leads them on. It feels _too close_ but Aragorn leans into the other man’s arm as they make the journey through the corridors of the inner citadel.

“We must see to the wounded,” Aragorn protests though he is easily guided. His legs are tired, his body is tired, he is elated that they have survived- won, but all bodies have their limits and the time to rest has come.

“The wounded are being tended to by those who have rested while the armies returned,” Faramir corrects, “you have all done enough for today and sleep will give you the energy to do what must be done tomorrow.”

There are no guards on any door, all pretence of order and normality gone, and Faramir unlocks the wing they come to with a key hanging from his belt. “My home is open to the heroes returned, there is no ceremony in my home, tonight or any other, so please take what you need,” then he leads Aragorn to the end of the corridor while those behind them split up, finding somewhere to rest their heads.

The door Faramir opens to the right of the last door leads into a clean, comfortable type room that smells so thickly of Faramir that Aragorn knows it must be his room.

“I cannot take your room,” Aragorn takes his arm back, pulls away a little and Faramir catches his elbow again and guides him into an inner chamber where a large bed stretches out across the room. The room is furnished comfortably though plainly, and Aragorn feels too comfortable in such a space.

“The King’s Rooms have not been opened since the Stewards my grandfather’s day and I do not know how long it will be until it can be cleaned. In the mean time I have slept and you have not, and I would be a poor host if I were to allow you to anything but my best room.” He pushes Aragorn down onto the bed, and somewhere amidst the suffocating scent of him in his bedchamber the gratitude and admiration Aragorn feels overwhelms him. Aragorn pulls Faramir down with him onto the soft surface.

Faramir is surprised, Aragorn circles his hands around the other man’s waist and holds him there, breathing in the scent from the source.

“My Lord,” Faramir argues, but he does not try to pull away. Aragorn holds a little tighter and not a whiff of protest comes off the man sprawled across him.

“I do not want to disrespect you,” Aragorn apologises, fingers loosening with reluctance, and Faramir catches the retreating hands and holds them in place pupils wide and interested.

“Is my smell pleasant, my Lord?” he asks instead of all the things he could say.

“Yes,” Aragorn leans up dragging his nose along the curve of the thin neck breathing in that perfect scent. The scent he caught under herbs and medicines in the Houses of Healing, the scent that has been tickling his senses since he returned to Minas Tirith.

He wonders, but won’t ask, if this is why Faramir’s father behaved the way he did. If his father had been taken by the old human ways and was too foolish to know everything an omega could be, but he knows better than to ask that while there’s a soft body in his arms. “Intoxicating,” he amends because good isn’t enough. Good is plain and ordinary. Good is the hobbits who all smell a bit like omegas although they claim they aren’t, good are pretty girls in taverns who flirt and smile, good is nothing on the scent that’s stirring his body to action when his very muscles quake with exhaustion.

“Do you want to-” Faramir seems to be unable to proceed, and Aragorn is struck with the need to reassure the man of his desirability. Stuck with the idea that no-one has ever let him know how entirely desirable he is.

He rolls the man under him, brackets him in with strong arms and kisses him once, then twice, and then again because Faramir’s mouth opens and his expression becomes surprised. It’s too much to see such vulnerability so Aragorn presses another kiss in, and this time he pushes it past proprietary (if it can be considered proper to have rolled an omega under him and kissed him like this to begin with), this time Aragorn delves deep, turns his head, and kisses plush and hot and with everything in him.

And then the smell, which was overwhelming before, spikes sharper, stronger, and Aragorn loses what little of his good senses made it through the war.

\- - -

There’s blood on his teeth when he wakes. The sun is still up and he is still locked inside the warm heat of the other man. Aragorn twists his hips to test their connection and, on his side, Faramir groans in overwhelmed pleasure. At least, that’s how it sounds to Aragorn. Self-satisfied Aragorn circles his hips again, and Faramir wakes at the flare of pleasure-pain that it evokes in him.

“I bit you,” Aragorn reminds as he rolls his hips, seeking a renewal of pleasure even as he says words that must be said. He fixes his mouth over the bite very gently. Although Faramir won’t be able to feel it, it’s sore looking, it’s bleed, and Aragorn does not want to harm the man further. Faramir stretches his arms out, unconcerned, and pushes back into the roll of Aragorn’s hips.

“I remember, my Lord,” Faramir runs his long fingers over Aragorn’s nervous ones where they are locked around his soft belly. “It will heal,” he says to reassure and it has the opposite effect. Aragorn’s hands grip, pull tighter. He’s lost a great many things, not as much as some, but he has lost a much to this war and he does not want to lose the omega in his arms.

“I don’t bite,” he tries to explain, and Faramir understands because Faramir tenses and stills under him. “I’ve never wanted to bite.”

“It happens,” Faramir soothes, and shifts his hips to see if they are still locked together.

“You said yes,” Aragorn reminds and Faramir doesn’t respond. “You said yes,” Aragorn reminds fiercer, possessive.

“I’m an omega steward, my Lord,” Faramir says plainly, “I do not have designs on my King and I do not expect a man to keep promises made in the heat of passion.”

“Then you don’t know me yet,” Aragorn explains hotly, and he knows it will hurt more when the pleasure has worn off, but he bites Faramir again, hard. The man in his arm cries out, his body flooded with ecstasy as it tenses in a tight line, squeezing Aragorn where he is still locked inside him, and Aragorn bites harder still in response to the pleasure. Their pleasure loops against each other until Faramir’s body eventually slumps and Aragorn can unclench his jaw once more. It is phenomenal, to find this after so long, to find a perfect mate right where he was supposed to return. Fate, destiny, luck. Aragorn cares not which it is, only that he has it.

Faramir pants in his arms, and Aragorn pets and soothes him, kissing his broad shoulders and the unbitten slope of his neck.

“You’ll learn,” Aragorn promises, “that your King keeps his promises.”

They marry in secret, but it soon becomes obvious to Aragorn that it must become official when Faramir's body begins to round and quicken. Faramir is resistant, but Aragorn refuses to allow his husband, his mate, to be debased by rumours and insinuations. Faramir is too good, too upright, to deserve the kind of talk that follows an unwedded omega with child.

When they do marry no-one questions it. The city of Minas Tirith seems to relax into it, as if they had been waiting for fallout from the power exchange from steward to king, but no longer have to fear it. It is, overall, considered one of the best outcomes, and it is understood by everyone but Faramir that Aragorn could not have done better had he wanted to, and that Faramir is settling for less than he deserves. Fortunately Aragorn agrees with them and does his level best to make sure Faramir always wants to stay by his side.


End file.
